


It's Not Hell if I'm With You

by shealynn88



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Bottom Dean, Bottom Sam, Demon!Dean, Extremely Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, M/M, No Lube, Sibling Incest, bloodjunkie!Sam, canon divergent at 10x03 Souls Survivor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 13:39:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18389525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shealynn88/pseuds/shealynn88
Summary: Demon!Dean wants his brother back.Dean presses a kiss to his brother’s head.  “Gonna break you open,” he promises, and Sam just whimpers softly.Please read the tags.





	It's Not Hell if I'm With You

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my fantastically encouraging and insightful beta, interstitial!

He pretends for days.  Plays his role, taciturn and hunched in.  Brings Sam close with near confessions, then pushes him away. Eats pizza, drinks beer, winds his brother up tight, calls him ‘bitch’ and gets an eye roll in response.  He loves it. Every moment of moving in too close, pushing just a little bit harder than he should. Than he would have, before. It’s like riding the edge, for days, riding it, waiting for the right time to slip over.

Every night he watches Sam sleep.  He lets his eyes go black and drags a knife neatly along his wrist, then watches his blood stain his brother’s lips. Sam’s tongue laps out, never missing a drop.  Even in sleep he  _ hungers. _ Ovaltine, Azazel had said. Make Sammy big and strong. And it had. And then it had made him weak. And Dean is counting on both. 

The third night, Sam paces desperately and Dean can see how hard he’s fighting it - that yawning hunger that he probably can’t even define.   _ Yet. _  Just knows it’s familiar and haunting, just enough to put that itch under his skin where he can’t scratch it.

And Hell if he doesn’t still want to be a good boy. After everything. As if it matters at all, as if all the shit they’ve gone through hasn’t already painted his soul black. 

“I’m gonna go out,” he finally tells Dean in a careful tone he must think is even.

It isn’t. It’s gloriously cracked and undone. 

Dean turns to him and leans against the door casually. “Where you going?” he asks. 

“Just out. Dean, come on, I’m not in the mood.  I won’t be gone long.”

Dean smiles. “I don’t think so, little brother,” he says, and then he slices hard and fast down the length of his forearm, and lets his eyes flip black. 

Sam’s reaction is priceless.  Beautiful and broken. “Dean,” he breathes in horror, stumbling forward and staring, gaze flickering between Dean’s black eyes, his smile, and the blood that runs in rivulets down his arm. 

“Stay,” Dean says soothingly. “I have everything you need.”

“No,” Sam whispers. He falls to his knees and it looks like supplication. 

Dean steps forward, arm lowered so blood drips down along his fingers. He smooths his bloody thumb along Sam’s lips and lets him lick it clean. “Yes,” he says softly. 

He slides his thumb into Sam’s mouth and Sam makes helpless noises. So torn, his Sammy. Still human enough to want to stop, but so helpless when given what he wants. Sam licks first, then sucks, curling his tongue around Dean’s thumb until Dean is rock hard.  Dean can see him sliding into the high - relaxing, suckling, moaning - and then Sam bites down, hard, breaking skin and shredding muscle. Dean hisses and shoves his thumb roughly down Sam’s throat, gripping his jaw tightly and pressing the back of his tongue until he gags, letting up just long enough for him to swallow the blood gushing from the bite, then pressing again until tears flow. Fuck, but he looks gorgeous this way. 

“Oh, Sammy,” he croons, stroking his brother’s cheek with his free hand. “This is what you’re gonna look like with my cock down your throat.”  Sam’s eyes go wide and Dean lets him go slowly, stroking his tongue, letting him struggle and swallow. 

“No,” Sam whispers as Dean frees him.  “Dean, please, I know you’re in there somewhere.  Please, you have to fight.”

Dean folds his brother in his arms. “I’m right here.  Right here for you, baby brother.” He takes Sam’s face in his hands, smooths his cheeks, lets his voice go deep and harsh. “Love when you’re pleading, Sammy.”  Sam flushes, eyes wide and panicked. “Love when you beg.” 

Sam whines softly. Fear, of course, but something else, too, smoke and hope and guilt and hunger, all wrapped up in one gorgeously classic demon-ridden Winchester package. 

“Gonna make you so strong,” he murmurs, stroking Sam’s hair, pulling him closer, into his lap like he’s a child again. Sam is limp with horror, torpid and satiated. “Beautiful Sammy.”  He presses a kiss to his brother’s head. “Gonna break you open,” he promises, and Sam just whimpers softly. 

Sam grows a backbone the next day. Takes the strength the blood gives him and presses it into Dean, crushes the black inside him until it’s crowding his lungs like smoke and he’s coughing and choking on his knees, and it’s exactly what he wanted. His brother’s strength, pushing him to the limits. It hurts in  _ just  _ the right way.

“Please, Sammy,” he finally chokes out. “Please.  Don’t you love me?” He keeps his eyes carefully clean and pleading, and Sam drops his hand and falls to his knees again.  Dean crawls to him and whispers in a choked gravel voice, “I’ve got you. Never gonna let you go,” and it’s Sam that holds him this time, rocking him and whispering, “I’m sorry, Dean, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” and he’s crying again and it’s perfect. 

Dean isn’t one to go back on a promise, and this is one he’s relished for days, now. So, after he lets Sam clean his fingers of blood, he pushes two fingers back into his brother’s wet mouth, presses just slightly and smiles as Sam chokes but doesn’t move away. 

“Remember what I told you?” he asks, sliding his fingers deep and then hooking them forward, knuckles on the roof of Sam’s mouth, finger pads resting against the back of his bottom teeth.  He pulls Sam forward like that, jaw stretched wide. Sam makes soft breathy sounds. “Gonna fuck your mouth, baby brother. Just like I promised.”

He keeps his hand there while he pulls his cock out, and then he releases Sam’s mouth and grabs a fistful of hair. “Be a good boy, now,” he murmurs as he thrusts deep. 

And Sam is. He chokes and cries and looks exactly as broken and desperate as Dean had hoped.  Makes Dean want to crack him open and see every bloody inch of him. He fucks him slowly, sensation building so fast, he can barely stand it.   _ "Fuck," _ he groans.  He presses into Sam’s throat as deep as he can go, stretching his brother’s mouth open with the pressure, and then comes with a cry as Sam struggles against his hands, mouth working desperately around Dean’s cock as he splutters, forced to swallow or drown. 

Dean lets go when Sam’s hands start scrambling weakly against Dean’s legs, and Sam falls, coughing, to all fours. He’s sobbing there, so beautiful, dripping come, sweat, saliva, tears. Dean enjoys the view for a few minutes before he gathers him up again and kisses him softly, all the broken pieces, in a cruel mimicry of childhood.

Dean makes him strip before they go to bed, makes sure his cock is pressed against the crack of his brother’s ass like a promise as they fall asleep.

Dean wakes with Sam on top of him, pressing the weight of Hell into his chest, crushing his throat without touching him. He tries to croak out his brother’s name, but Sam twists his hand and Dean can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Just writhes and fights for breath until there are tears, and then Sam releases him.

“Is this the game, Dean?” he asks, voice cold.  His hand tightens in the air again, just slightly.  As if Dean needs a reminder of what he can do. “Two can play,” he promises, and the darkness in his voice curls through Dean the way he imagines his blood does in Sam.

“Turn over,” Sam orders. 

“Samm-,” Dean starts to say in his best ‘be reasonable’ tone, but Sam chokes Dean with the word half-uttered. 

Dean turns over. 

Sam slides a hand between Dean’s legs and yanks on his balls, forcing Dean onto his knees with a yelp. 

“Sam, we can-“

“Don’t you  _ dare _ ,” Sam spits, and Dean can’t breathe again - thrashes with Sam’s hand crushing his balls, Sam’s power crushing his chest, and he nods desperately until Sam lets go, just enough to gasp, just enough to keep from passing out. Then, as he’s struggling for air, tears and snot running down his face, Sam forces himself deep, presses relentlessly with no lube and no prep and the pain is blinding.  Dean screams, arches, every muscle is screaming, gripping, pressing and before he can think he’s begging, “No, Sam, please- Fuck!” Screams again as Sam pulls out and drives back in, grabbing fistfuls of Dean’s hair and wrenching his head back, impaling him over and over until it’s nothing but pain, pain and blinding pain.

“Did you really think it would be that easy?” Sam hisses in his ear, slamming into him brutally. “Did you really think I’d just go down without a fight?”

The pain, unrelenting, takes on a new edge.  It’s heat and darkness and it builds like it’ll tear him apart and he’s crying, whimpering as Sam fucks him open and then it takes him over in a horrendous rush, and he’s spilling come on the sheets, and Sam is pulsing deep inside him and then pushing him away in disgust. 

“Did you think you’d win?” Sam asks, breathless, teeth clamped together like an animal. 

“Not me,” Dean gasps, struggling to rise from where Sam’s discarded him.  “Not  _ me _ . Us.”  He smiles, aching and satisfied. 

Sam’s fist cracks against his mouth, snapping his head down and dropping him back to the sheets.  His lip is split wide and the inside of his cheek is bleeding enough that it’s filling his mouth. 

“I should kill you,” Sam hisses. 

Dean tests his jaw carefully, feels the blood spilling onto his chin.  He forces himself to all fours and crawls slowly toward his brother. 

“You should,” he murmurs, crawling up Sam’s body until they’re pressed together. He watches Sam’s mouth, open and panting, then meets his eyes, full of fury and a beautiful, blooming darkness. “But Sammy,” Dean whispers, licking his split lip and leaning in, “aren’t you hungry, little brother?  Aren’t you hungry for  _ more _ ?”

**Author's Note:**

> In my head, this is the song that describes their post-fic adventures:  
> https://youtu.be/MklXJFUw5Fg


End file.
